


small and precious

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fairy Jon, M/M, Macro/Micro, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, self indulgent porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: For one bizarre moment, he thinks that it’s a doll. Smaller than a-- a Barbie doll or something, but not by much. Then it moves and Martin yelps and--“Jon?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 55
Kudos: 371





	small and precious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aryashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryashi/gifts).



When Martin knocks at Jon’s office door, there’s no response. This isn’t too weird - sometimes when Jon’s reading something he sort of gets lost in his own little world, so absorbed in the words that he sometimes doesn’t even notice that Martin’s knocked on the door, opened it, walked inside, and called his name, only startling with a yelp as Martin reaches out to shake his shoulder a bit. At which point he’ll glare at Martin accusingly, as if he snuck in as quietly as he could so he could scare Jon on purpose. 

He really doesn’t like annoying Jon - for one thing, Jon becomes very _unpleasant_ when he’s annoyed - but honestly, it’s just sort of inevitable that it’s going to happen. He can try as much as he wants to be a good assistant who definitely isn’t irritating at all, but somehow he just _can’t_ stop messing up around Jon. Saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. He doesn’t know what it is, and it’s kind of driving him crazy, but he’s also kind of getting a bit resigned to it. The only way for Martin Blackwood to not annoy Jonathan Sims is to not do anything at all-- at which point Jon would be mad at him for lazing about and not getting any work done. It’s an exercise in futility and he can’t let it paralyze him. 

Plus, Jon had told him to get him the file for the Jones case like… over an hour ago. It’s not his fault that it was buried underneath three cardboard boxes covered in a layer of dust an inch thick, but he already knows that Jon isn’t going to see it that way. So, he opens the door even though he hasn’t been welcomed in. 

“Jon, I found the…” He stops as he sees that the office is empty. No Jon. That’s… weird. Jon’s here when Martin comes in to work and here when he leaves, and he doesn’t really stop to take a lunch break or even _bathroom breaks_ as far as Martin can see, which is honestly pretty worrying but also none of his business and he can’t fuss over every single person that he meets because-- he’s getting off track. The point is that Jon’s sort of become a fixture of this office, in his mind. Like he’s a part of the furniture. To be in the office and not see Jon here somehow feels… sort of unsettling. 

He leans back out of the office door, towards the wider space where his and Tim and Sasha’s desks are. 

“Have you guys seen Jon?” he asks them. Maybe the man’s finally deigned to acknowledge that he is in fact a human being, and gone off for a lunch break. Or just a trip to the loo. Or, more likely, he had to go and find a file for himself. 

Sasha pulls down her headphones from over her ears, tinny music playing faintly from them, and Tim looks up from his own desk. 

“No,” she says. “He isn’t in there?” 

Martin shakes his head. 

“Huh,” Tim says. “He must’ve walked past us while we were distracted, I guess.” 

“Oh,” Martin says. Well that was… a dissatisfying answer, actually, but oh well. “Well, I guess he’ll have to be back soon?” 

“Yeah, probably,” Sasha says, putting her headphones back on and turning back to her work. 

“Sure he’s just popped up for a meeting with Elias or something,” Tim says, and then does the same. 

Right. Martin decides to just leave the file Jon asked for on his desk for him to find later. This is good, really. This way he can do what Jon asked _without_ the part where Jon snaps at him for not doing it well enough. Best of both worlds. He walks inside, the door falling closed behind him. It’s as he’s placing the file on Jon’s desk, that he sees it from the new angle. 

Clothes. _Jon’s_ clothes, abandoned and crumpled in a pile on Jon’s chair. He hasn’t just taken his sweater off-- which, even that would be strange, it’s chilly enough down here that everyone has to wear layers. Martin can see Jon’s white buttoned up shirt as well, the neat collar of it clearly visible at the neckhole of the darker sweater. Like he decided that he wanted to be shirtless and just took it all off in one go. Wait, that’s, it can’t be-- 

Jon’s trousers are on the floor in front of the chair. He can see his shoes peeking out from the fabric of them as well. He can see-- 

Martin squeaks, recoils, and slaps a hand over his own mouth. He looks around the office wide eyed, as if he’s doing something wrong and has to worry about being caught red handed. Hesitantly, he leans back in to make sure that he really saw what he just saw. 

His _pants._ Jon’s pants are right there, peeking out from inside the abandoned trousers that Martin had seen Jon wear today, they’re _there,_ those are _Jon’s_ pants, Martin has _seen Jon pants_ and oh god if Jon’s pants are on the floor then _what is Jon wearing--_

He lightly slaps himself in the face. “Calm down,” he tells himself, trying to make his voice sound stern and firm. “You’re being ridiculous. Jon wouldn’t just sneak out of his office _naked._ He’s-- he’s wearing something else. He changed outfits. For some reason. Yes.” 

_Why,_ though. It makes zero sense, the scenario he’s cooked up, and he’s desperately reaching for the most reasonable explanation, here. The only other thing he can think of is that Jon got… confused, and took his clothes off and left, and Tim and Sasha just happened not to notice. But Jon isn’t old and senile or troubled and confused. Martin talked to him this morning, and he acted just like himself. 

He has no idea what’s going on, and-- should he tell Tim and Sasha? Would that be some sort of… breach of privacy, possibly embarrassing Jon? Or could Jon be hurt or sick or something, and he should tell them so they can work together to try and find him? He really has no fucking clue what’s going on here. 

Belatedly, he notices something on Jon’s desk. A book. There is a painting on the cover of a petite woman with long hair. She’s naked, but her knees are drawn up to her chest, her arms loosely wrapped around them. Behind her, wings fan out - butterfly wings, colorful and vibrant. Painted in elegant, golden calligraphy across the top of the book is the title: _The Secret of the Fae._

It’s a beautiful book. It’s a beautiful book, and something inside of his stomach goes cold and heavy with sudden anxiety at the sight of it. It’s the exact kind of book that he’d expect to find a certain nameplate inside of. 

He looks at the abandoned clothes again, this time with a new eye. The way the shirt is still inside of the sweater, crumpled on top of the seat, the trousers draped across the edge of it, the shoes-- it looks for all the world like Jon just evaporated where he sat, leaving only his clothes behind. 

“No, no, no,” he mutters to himself. Jon can’t be-- he can’t have-- 

With a shaking hand, he reaches out and picks up the sweater, the shirt. To do what, he doesn’t know. Look for… blood? As if that might prove anything? He picks it up and-- something falls out as he does onto the seat of the chair. Martin blinks, and leans in to see what it is. 

For one bizarre moment, he thinks that it’s a doll. Smaller than a-- a Barbie doll or something, but not by much. Then it _moves_ and Martin yelps and-- 

_“Jon?”_

The doll-- Jon, that’s _Jon--_ opens his eyes, slowly and groggily, as if waking up from a good nap. He’s small. He’s naked. He’s got wings, brown and white things, patterned like a moth. He’s-- 

“What-- _good lord,”_ Jon says, his eyes going very, very wide as soon as he catches sight of Martin, craning his neck back, back, back to look up at him. His voice sounds-- different. Not high pitched but… smaller. Not as easy to hear. “Martin, what-- what happened to you?” 

“Um,” he says, his voice breaking on the single syllable. “I think… I’m, I’m not the one who’s different, Jon.” 

Jon… does not take it well. 

In the end, Artefact Storage has to come down to them and pick the book up with meter long tongs, the employee in question wearing a radioactive suit while they do so. As Jon had explained it after some _(a lot)_ of panic, he hadn’t even read the damned thing. He’d turned around to pick a pen he’d dropped up off the floor, and when he sat back up, it was there on his desk, like it had always been there. He’d only opened it to check for a Leitner nameplate, nothing else. But that had been enough, apparently. 

“Leitners don’t just go off like-- like a can full of fake snakes!” he says. Before Martin had gone and gotten Tim and Sasha, he’d given Jon his handkerchief to wrap himself up with first. He’d bought it once from an antique shop at a whim, once. Having an honest to god handkerchief-- it just seemed sort of charming to him. Jon can’t put it over his wings without hurting them, apparently, so the handkerchief sits below them, leaving his shoulders bare, and he clutches the handkerchief close to his chest with both hands, like a bashful woman caught in flagrante, desperately trying to protect his modesty from onlookers. 

That’s Martin’s _handkerchief,_ and Jon’s using it to cover himself up. He’s having a hard time processing that. 

_“Most_ Leitners don’t go off like a can of fake snakes,” Sasha corrects him. “Apparently.” 

“Yes, well, I know that _now,”_ Jon snaps. He’s still very stressed, even if he’s thankfully calmed down from his earlier hysteria. Justified hysteria, but still. It had scared Martin. He doesn’t know how to handle a distressed Jon, especially when he’s so _small._ He feels like he can’t even touch him, like he might be too rough and clumsy and _break_ him. 

“Artefact Storage is going to do some testing on the Leitner,” Tim says, looking weirded out but ready power through it. “As much as they safely can, anyways. And we can… I guess we can start combing through everything we have and try and find anything related to this Leitner?” 

“What-- what about Jon, though?” Martin asks. Everyone looks at him, and he flushes a bit, but he keeps going. “I mean, we don’t know how long this is going to last, right? How is he going to help look for things? I’m not even sure he can open up a file right now, he’s so-- I’m sorry Jon but you’re really small right now.” 

Jon’s tiny face scrunches up in a frown, and his antenna (he’s got _antenna)_ flick with… annoyance? “I-- I suppose I’ll need some help turning pages, but I can still _read._ I can help,” he says firmly. 

Sasha claps her hands. “Right then! Martin you do that, you can share your desk with Jon. It’s not like he’s going to take up that much space, after all. Tim, come help me carry some boxes?” 

And the rest of the day goes like that. Tim and Sasha keep coming back from file storage with more and more dusty boxes filled to the bursting with old Statements. Martin grabs a random stack of them to get started at, and Jon rejects a dozen of them in less than five minutes before he finally finds one to settle down with for a while. Martin can’t help but sneak glances at him as he works. He’s crouched on his hands and knees on top of the file, glaring down at the text as he reads it, and about once a minute he’ll poke at Martin to get him to turn a page for him. Jon tried doing it himself, a couple of times. It’s not that they’re too heavy, exactly, but more like they’re too unwieldy and awkward. Martin thinks he could manage it, maybe, if he could just fly, but the one time he hesitantly tried he almost fell off the desk and Martin had to lunge for him to stop him from falling over the edge. So, the wings are effectively decorative, basically. 

“More like obstacles,” Jon huffs, and then makes a little squeak as one of the wings abruptly flicks outwards and startles him into almost tripping and falling. 

They all end up staying some hours later than usual, before they all have to reluctantly give up for the day. Jon looks like he very much wants to power through the night and keep going, and Martin can’t exactly blame him, considering that he’s the one who’s been turned into a _fairy,_ but he’s exhausted and the words are blurring in front of his eyes. And Jon can’t exactly keep researching on his own right now, so. 

“Wait,” Martin says belatedly as Tim tiredly puts on his jacket and Sasha shoves a stack of files bigger than War and Peace into her big purse. “Wait, what about Jon? Where’s he going to stay?” 

They all… pause, at that. 

“Ah, shit,” Tim says. “You’re right, we kind of forgot about that, huh? You can’t get home on your own, Jon.” 

Jon looks just as startled as them at the reminder of this very practical issue. “Well I suppose I-- I can just stay here in the Archives overnight.” 

“Alone?” Martin asks, concerned. “What if something happens, or you need something? What if-- what if you need a drink? I don’t think you can even turn on the tap right now, Jon.” 

“Maybe we could leave a saucer of water for him?” Sasha muses. 

Jon bristles at that. “I’m not a _kitten.”_

“I’m just saying, drinking from a glass would probably be a bit difficult for you right now.” 

“What if you need something to eat?” Martin goes on. “You can’t open the fridge either. God-- what if a-- what if a _rat_ or something comes in and tries to eat you? You can’t even fly away, Jon!” 

“We don’t have rats,” Sasha points out. 

“We’ve got spiders, though,” Tim says, a bit of a joking note in his voice. “What if you get caught in a web, Jon?” 

There aren’t any spiders in _England_ big enough to eat Jon, Martin would like to point out, but then he notices how Jon blanches at that. If Martin has to rely on Jon’s phobia to convince him to let someone take care of him after he’s literally been _cursed by a Leitner…_ Well, he does what he has to do to take care of people. Always has. 

“Maybe it’d be for the best if you slept over at someone’s flat tonight,” he suggests. “Just in case you need help with anything.” 

“I… suppose you have a point,” Jon agrees reluctantly, eyes shifting as if he thinks a spider is suddenly going to pounce at him. “I hadn’t really considered my new size relative to pests and animals.” 

Tim grimaces. “I’ve got a roommate. Explaining that the supernatural exists to him might be, uh, a whole _thing.”_

“And I’ve got a cat,” Sasha says. “She really likes hunting flies and insects, so….” 

“I don’t have a roommate or a cat,” Martin says, even though he sometimes wishes that he did. It’d make paying rent easier at least, and the company would be nice. Anyways. “You could stay at my place, Jon.” 

“I, ah, thank you, Martin,” Jon says uncomfortably. Martin supposes that it’s a good thing that he’d gotten Jon to admit that staying at someone’s flat for the night would be a good idea _before_ he discovered that Martin’s place was the only viable option available. It’d be a bit awkward for him to backpedal now. “That’s, that’s very generous of you.” 

“It’s no problem,” he says. 

_Getting_ Jon to Martin’s flat is a bit easier said than done. He can’t just be… out and about where people can see him, that’d end in chaos. He sort of wishes that he had a… cat carrier with him, or maybe a birdcage he could cover with a cloth. Something that would keep Jon concealed from view, but wouldn’t be uncomfortable either. Then again, Jon probably wouldn’t like the indignity of either of those options. Not that the solution he came up with instead was particularly dignified either-- to just put him in his jacket pocket. It’s roomy, thankfully, but Martin can’t help but worry that he’s going to forget himself and put his hand in his pocket or accidentally stumble or trip and knock himself into a wall and _squish_ him. He spends the whole tube ride home standing stiff and uncomfortable, edging away from anyone who looks like they might stand too close and press up against Jon in his pocket, so small and fragile now. 

When he finally gets home, the door falling shut behind him, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Okay, you can come out now,” he says. 

Nothing. 

Oh god, did he _drop him_ or something? Panic bubbling up inside of him, he feels around in his jacket pocket. He finds… Jon. He pulls him out, wrapped up in his handkerchief, and it feels like he’s handling a doll, with how small and unresisting he is. Unmoving. Limp, silent, eyes closed. Martin’s heart surges up his throat. 

“Jon?” he breathes, bringing Jon further up towards his face, like he needs to whisper. 

Jon stirs with a faint noise. _Thank god,_ Martin thinks. 

“Did you fall asleep on the ride over?” he asks him as Jon slowly blinks his eyes open, levering himself into sitting up with one hand-- and it then occurs to Martin that he’s _holding_ Jon, cupping him so easily in the palms of his hands. God, he’s holding all of Jon in his hands like it’s nothing, nothing at all. 

“I… yes, I suppose I did. I just got so tired.” Jon gives a jaw cracking yawn, and then slumps back down into lying down in Martin’s hands, nestling into the handkerchief wrapped around him. Martin’s heart aches at the sight of it, he’s so cute like this that he can barely _stand_ it. 

God, he’s glad that Jon can’t read minds. He’s going to have to take that one to his grave, what an awful thing to think. Jon’s cursed and Martin thinks it’s _cute._

It is cute, though. Objectively speaking. It’s just _also_ kind of terrible at the same time. 

“Jon, stay awake,” he says softly, even though watching Jon nap sounds unbearably soft and domestic. “You haven’t eaten in ages, let’s get something in you before you go to bed.” 

It’s very early to go to bed, honestly, but Jon’s had a very long day. Getting cursed must take it out of you something terrible. 

Jon grumbles but relents to Martin’s reasoning, sitting back up in his hands. Martin walks towards his kitchen. 

“I am actually very hungry, now that you mention it,” Jon says, carefully getting out of Martin’s hands as Martin lowers them down to his kitchen counter. 

“I bet you could have a full meal on a ritz cracker,” he jokes. Jon scowls and huffs, and Martin hides a grin by turning around and opening the fridge. “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’ll get you something.” 

Martin ends up making him a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly. He cuts it in half, and then after a moment of consideration, he cuts that half in half again. It still looks comically large when he hands it to Jon, but it’s not like he needs to finish it. 

“Bon appetit,” he says. “Sorry, it’s not something fancier. I, heh, I wasn’t expecting guests over today?” 

“It’s perfectly suitable, Martin,” he says. He’s sitting down on the kitchen counter, holding the handkerchief closed around him with one hand, struggling to lift the sandwich up to his mouth with the other. Martin wonders if he should get Jon a safety pin to keep it shut around him. Or… could he buy doll clothes? Would those fit him? Or should he try and brush up his sewing skills? “Food is food.” 

Somehow, Martin isn’t surprised to learn that Jon’s one of those people who treats food like fuel. He puts the rest of the sandwich on a plate, and settles down to eat that himself. He should probably make something more substantial, pop the frozen lasagna in his freezer into the oven, or even make an actual meal so that Jon thinks he’s a responsible adult who cooks regularly. But he got home a lot later than usual, and it has been a weird, stressful day. It’ll be a relief to just get this over with so he can go to bed. He’ll eat more at breakfast. 

He hears a faint noise of disgust. He looks over. Jon is grimacing, setting the little chunk of sandwich gingerly down on the kitchen counter. 

“Problem?” he asks. 

“I… no, it’s fine,” Jon says. “I’m just not that hungry after all.” 

“Is it moldy?” he asks anxiously, peering at his own sandwich. It looks alright, and he bought this bread this week, too. 

“It just-- I don’t have much of an appetite, that’s all,” he says, but he says it in that dodgy way he does when Martin asks him if he’s had lunch yet, or if he’s feeling all the way better from that cold. Martin frowns. 

“Hang on, I’ve got some apples. I’ll cut you a slice, maybe that’ll be better,” he says, standing up to do just that. If Jon just doesn’t like jelly or peanut butter then that’s fine, but he hasn’t eaten in a while, and he’s small too. Small creatures need to eat more often, don’t they? Something about metabolism. 

Martin gets Jon a single apple boat slice. Again, it looks like a lot in Jon’s hands-- it’s hard wrapping his head around his new size, making something properly proportionate for him. But if it works then it-- 

Jon takes a single nibble out of it and then spits it out. 

“Oh,” Martin says, surprised. 

“I-- excuse me, Martin, I just-- I think it’s rotten.” 

“Give it to me?” He holds out a hand. Jon hands it over, something that he has to use both arms to do, placing it in Martin’s hand. Martin takes a bite out of it. “It… tastes fine.” 

“It doesn’t to me,” Jon says defensively. 

“I believe you,” Martin says, and there’s something cold and worried nipping at his gut, like a dawning unpleasant realization on the horizon. “I’ll get you something else.” 

“It’s really not that big of a--” 

“It’s fine! You really should eat, Jon, just _something.”_

They try, in order: one of the aforementioned ritz crackers, a biscuit, a carrot, a piece of plain toast, a single fried egg, a boiled egg, one piece of penne pasta that Martin quickly boils, and a piece of chocolate. Jon takes a single bite out of all of them, and then can’t bring himself to take another. 

“Are you sure?” Martin asks anxiously. As they’ve gone through food after food and Jon has continued not being able to stomach any of them, his anxiety has built, and built, and built. Even Jon seems to be taking it seriously now, not trying to make excuses and get Martin to stop trying to find something he can eat. Because, god, if Jon can’t eat right now-- he’d said he’d felt hungry so he still needs food, but if he also can’t _eat_ food, then-- 

Martin really, really doesn’t want to watch Jon just… slowly starve to death in front of him, while he stands by uselessly. 

“Try it again,” he urges him. “I know it tastes bad, but can you power through it?” 

Jon tries to force himself to swallow some of the plain toast. He gags and coughs instead, spitting it out. 

“No,” he says raggedly. “I can’t. It doesn’t even taste _edible._ That’s not food.” 

“Oh,” Martin says faintly. “Alright.” 

Small creatures need to eat more frequently. That little fact suddenly seems much, much more urgent. As he watches, Jon crosses his arms across his stomach, hunched inwards slightly like he’s in pain. Hunger pangs, already. The sight of it makes him want to hyperventilate, just a bit. 

“We can fix this,” he says. “I can fix this, we can figure this out. So, you can’t eat regular food right now. Okay. But you _do_ need to eat. Okay! You’re… a fairy. Do you need fairy food? What is that? Berries? Should I pop into the tescos and get you some-- some raspberries or something?” 

Jon twists his neck to shoot his own wings a brief accusatory glare, as if they’re responsible for what’s happening to him. 

“I’m not sure how fairy-like a plastic wrapped box with a barcode sticker on it from the produce section is,” he says skeptically. “But I suppose it’s worth a try.” 

His wings, brown and white, patterned with eye like markings. Moth wings. 

“Yeah, alright,” Martin says, even as his thoughts chew at that. “Okay, I’ll go and get some berries. Can’t hurt! Be safe while I’m gone!” 

Leaving Jon alone when he’s so small and-- and weak, to be perfectly frank, feels wrong. But he doubts Jon would appreciate another ride in his pocket, and he’s leaving him alone in his flat, nice and locked, the windows shut. 

On his way there, he googles something on his phone. What do moths eat? 

He was expecting answers like sweaters and curtains, but apparently the main thing one should feed a moth if they have to is carefully mixed sugar water, or nectar. He hadn’t realized that moths ate nectar. He thought it was a butterfly thing. 

He still buys a little box of raspberries from the store, an unusual little luxury that he’s never taken for himself. And then on his way home, he walks by a flower store. A florist? He hesitates for a moment, but hell, it can’t hurt, right? And if he waits to come back after the berries don’t work-- if they don’t work-- then this place will probably be closed by then. Martin buys some flowers, nice and fresh and hopefully full of nectar. Enough to feed a little moth fairy. 

He comes home with a box of raspberries and a modest bouquet. He finds Jon still on the kitchen counter-- and god, Martin forgot that he can’t fly, can’t get down from there. He’d effectively left him stranded. He should have at least moved him to the couch first, somewhere soft. He’s lying down, and Martin realizes with another pang of worry that he’s sleeping again, fallen asleep on his cold, hard kitchen counter, the only softness the handkerchief he’s curled up in. 

“Jon,” he says softly, and then very, very carefully gives him a bit of a nudge with one finger. Jon groans, turns over. Martin nudges him again. Jon opens his eyes-- and then cries out and scrambles back from him. Martin takes a step back, holding his hands up. 

“Sorry! Sorry for startling you. Yeah, I’m-- I’m really big. You read a Leitner, remember?” 

Jon clutches a hand to his chest, takes a deep breath. “I didn’t _read_ it,” he says after a moment spent gathering his composure. “I simply opened it.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then he flushes, and looks away. “Um, Jon. You-- your handkerchief, it’s slipped.” 

“What-- good _lord,”_ he says, sounding mortified and exasperated. 

Martin’s already seen Jon naked once before today, but it was sort of overshadowed at the time by the fact that he was a fairy. He’s seen Jon naked twice now, and god that’s weird, something he thought would never happen in a million years. Definitely not while he had wings and was small enough that Martin could probably trap him in a jar if he felt like it, too. 

Martin fishes one of the berries out of the box while Jon fixes himself up, gives him a moment. He rinses it in the sink, then hands it to him. It looks like a nice little lunch in his small hands, that tiny berry. He holds his breath as Jon tentatively tries it. His heart sinks when he sputters and wipes his mouth at his arm instead. 

“God,” Jon says. “That’s-- no, I can’t eat that. It’s not going to stay down, I don’t even think I can swallow it.” 

That’s… really not good. At a loss for what else to do, he grabs the bouquet and sets it down in front of Jon. It dwarfs him. 

“... Martin, I don’t see what it is you want for me to do with this,” he says, giving him a look like he thinks he’s being daft, or gone mad. He flushes a bit, but no, it’s a _decent_ idea, okay. Considering the circumstances. 

“I read that moths eat nectar,” he says. “So, maybe that’s it? Could you try?” 

“How?” he asks. “I don’t have a-- my _tongue_ hasn’t changed at least, thank goodness. I’ve never _extracted nectar_ from a flower before. Where do I even start?” 

“Just try it,” he coaxes him, feeling a bit frayed thin. It’s been a long day, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to go to bed before he can assure himself that Jon’s not going to starve to death. That there’s something that he can eat. “Maybe some-- some new instincts might kick in?” 

Jon gives him a dubious look, but he approaches the flowers. He’s going to try. Hesitantly he kneels down, holds one of the flowers and leans in and… sniffs it, like someone suspicious of a meal made by a stranger. 

“Oh,” Jon says, a soft noise of surprise. Then he sticks his entire face into the flower like he’s _starving,_ and he doesn’t come back up for air. His head moves and bobs slightly, like he’s licking something-- it reminds Martin of a video he saw once of a dog trying to stick its entire snout into a peanut butter jar so it could lick the contents out. He doesn’t throw his hands up and give up or make any disgusted noises and spit anything back out. He stays there, kneeling with his face shoved deep into the flower, and if he listens intently he can hear some muffled noises of enjoyment, like someone scarfing down a tasty meal after a long, hard day at work. 

Martin sits down in one of his two kitchen chairs, feeling suddenly dizzy with relief. It _worked._ Jon can eat nectar. Martin just has to keep getting him nectar, keep getting him flowers-- could he maybe buy concentrated nectar from someone? That feels like something he should be able to find online from some eccentric… bee owner, or something. Jon’s not going to starve. That’s the important part. He’s going to be okay. Martin laughs a little bit hysterically, then rubs at his face. God, that’s good. That’s good. 

He watches as Jon eats, and after a long few minutes he comes back out, something faint and golden smeared around his mouth. 

“Was that alright?” he asks him softly. “Feel better now?” 

Jon looks at him with dark eyes, and then he _smiles_ in a way that sort of steals Martin’s breath away with how unprepared for it he was. Then he stands up, leaving his handkerchief behind, and takes a running leap off the kitchen counter. Martin yelps and flinches to catch him-- but Jon’s wings flap open, and he just flies from the kitchen counter straight at Martin. Almost reflexively, without stopping to think about it, he reaches out with both of his hands cupped in a small bowl. Jon lands there like he’s always known how to fly. 

“You scared me!” he says. And-- “Oh god, Jon, you-- you dropped your handkerchief again--” 

Jon reaches out towards one of Martin’s fingers, knocks the other fingers next to it away a bit, and then sits down so he’s straddling the base of it between his thighs. Then he-- _grinds._ Martin bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. 

“Jon?” he breathes. 

Jon’s head tilts back and he _moans,_ loud and shameless enough to shut Martin right up. He grinds his crotch up against Martin’s hand, and-- and Martin thinks he can feel a _hardness_ there, something small and stiff rubbing enthusiastically up against his skin. He moves his hand so he can see better-- so he can see what Jon’s doing better. Jon doesn’t so much as startle at the movement, doesn’t pause in his movements as he happily fucks Martin’s hand. He’s _smiling._

He looks beautiful. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, mouth so, so dry. 

“Martin,” Jon sighs happily, like nothing strange is happening at all. He keeps grinding up against him, and he leans in to press a kiss to one of Martin’s fingers without stopping. God, he’s so small, he’s a _handful,_ sitting in Martin’s palm so comfortably. 

“Are you, I don’t-- what’s going on?” he asks. He feels so confused, and so suddenly, _achingly_ hard, his dick begging to be touched as Jon pants in his hand. 

“Good,” he says. “So good, thank you, thank you for getting me food and taking care of me and smelling so good and being so warm, _thank you.”_

Something-- something’s definitely going on. Jon’s being affected by the Leitner in some way, he has to be. He’s almost acting like he’s _drunk,_ his movements so eager and sloppy as he humps away at Martin’s hand, noisy and effusively grateful, his words simple and overwhelming. He should stop him. Martin should stop him. 

His free hand reaches out to-- what, pluck him away? He hesitates. Jon’s so small, so fragile and vulnerable. What if Martin hurts him? Holds him too hard, gives him full body bruises, crushes one of his wings? 

His free hand hangs there, uselessly, while Jon gets louder and louder as he drives himself towards some sort of peak, his hips beginning to thrust uneven and erratic as his already loose control slips further. 

“I-- I think you should stop,” he says, because that’s what he should say, because that’s what Jon _should_ do. 

“Mmm,” Jon groans clutching at Martin’s finger, rubbing himself up against him without even slowing down for a moment, without deigning Martin’s weak protest with so much as an acknowledgement. 

Martin just… sits there, and he watches wide eyed and still, his heart pounding, as Jon fucks himself on Martin’s hand until he throws his head back and cries out, spending himself all in one go across Martin’s hand. His wings flutter helplessly as he comes, and Martin burns with how adorable he is, how precious. 

Jon collapses to lie down in Martin’s palm afterwards, all of his muscles going lax at once, naked and sweaty and exhausted. Martin feels the base urge to unzip his jeans and curl his fingers around his own cock, and he shoves it aside. 

“Jon?” he asks. “Can you-- are you yourself now?” 

Jon lies there and breathes for a long moment, catching his breath, smiling. Then, slowly, the smile starts to slip away. He looks down at himself, his naked body. At the (small, such a small amount) come streaked on Martin’s hand. 

He snaps up to his feet abruptly, makes a mortified squeaking sort of noise, covers himself up with his hands, looks around in a panic, and then he jumps off Martin’s hand. His wings catch him again, but more clumsily now. Like… like an instinctual id isn’t at the wheel right now, like he’s back to not knowing how to operate two entirely new limbs. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon says, and then before Martin can say anything, he flies away, away from the kitchenette. “I have no excuse, I-- excuse me.” 

“It’s-- it’s okay!” he calls out after him, but he doesn’t stand up. He doesn’t want for Jon to feel like he’s chasing him. “I think… I think the nectar, um, sort of got to you? Please don’t feel bad.” 

There’s no response. He… probably needs some space, after that. Martin tries not to feel like garbage. He hadn’t known that the nectar was going to do that, was he? Should he have tried harder to stop Jon from-- humping his hand? Would that have even worked, or did Jon need to come to get back to himself? God, he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know. He can’t help but feel like a douchebag, though. Jon had looked so _humiliated._

He moves to run a hand through his hair, but then stops once he remembers what just happened to that hand. He probably needs to wash it, first. He looks at it. Squints. There’s something… 

Jon’s come. It’s _golden,_ sort of. Sparkling. That’s weird. 

Sometimes, Martin has weird, dumb impulse urges. He’ll reach out to touch something he absolutely shouldn’t before he’s even thought the decision out in his head, and then it’s too late and he’s touched the live wire or the hot stove or the dirty thing and he’s left there feeling and looking like an idiot. 

Martin brings the hand up to his mouth and licks the small amount of come up experimentally, like, he thinks it’s going to have a funny taste, like that isn’t a _deeply_ gross and weird thing to do. 

It _does_ taste weird. It tastes good, and hot, kind of sweet and spicy at the same time… 

The heat that’s been simmering in the pit of his stomach ever since Jon’s first moan abruptly _spikes._ He gasps, and then his hand is grinding down against his own dick before he’s even articulated the thought. He groans, deep and needy and his hips twitch up against the firm pressure. Every single fiber of his being just wants for him to take his cock out right now and stroke it until he comes. 

But no, Jon’s here, somewhere, in his flat. He could hear or see him and that-- Martin doesn’t want to upset him even more. It feels like it takes every drop of willforce he has, but he removes his hand and stands up, stumbles towards his bathroom. He rips his clothes off like he’s overheating and he needs them off, _right now._ God, his skin feels so _hot._

He staggers into the shower and turns the water on. A hot spray hit him, and he groans. God, yes, that feels better. Like it’s matching his temperature, making him feel a little less like he’s burning up. Finally, finally, he wraps his hand around his achingly hard cock, so hard that it’s darker with all of the blood running through it, and he tries to just… empty his head. Don’t think about anything at all but the hot water running down his back, his warm, firm hand wrapped around himself, the snap of his hips up into the pressure. Just lose himself in the simple, physical sensation. 

For a long time there’s no sound but the shower running and his own panting breath, and then hissed swears as he comes. It’s the sort of orgasm that _hurts_ a little bit, like it’s got its hooks in him and needs to be dragged out. 

He blearily blinks his eyes open and watches his come get washed down the drain. He… 

His dick is still hard. What the fuck. 

His dick is still hard, and it still feels like there’s a hot, banked fire trapped just beneath his skin. The aftertaste of Jon’s come still lingers in his mouth, sweet and spicy, golden and sparkling the way come absolutely shouldn’t be. What has he put in his mouth? 

He never even takes his hand off his dick before he starts stroking it again. It hurts a bit, sensitive, because he _did_ just come, but at the same time, taking his hand away is the last thing he wants to do. He needs to come. He _needs_ to. Is this how Jon had felt? It hadn’t looked like it. He’d looked so joyful and carefree in that moment, and this feels raw and desperate. 

Oh god no, _don’t_ think about Jon. Don’t. It would be wrong. He can’t articulate why, in this moment where it feels like he can feel every individual water drop hit his skin like a caress, but he’s convinced of it. Don’t think about Jon, and his dark, piercing eyes, or his stern mouth that looks so soft, or his hair that looks so thick that it’d be satisfying to dig your fingers into it, or his voice, smooth and deep, his accent curling around his words in a way that Martin desperately wishes he could find a way to capture on a page with his pen because it’s so lovely, the way it makes him feel to hear it sometimes. He has a beautiful voice. 

The way that voice _broke_ when he came on Martin’s hand--

This time, when Martin comes, he has to muffle himself with his free hand. If the first one had to be dragged out of him, this one is _torn._ Tears of exertion bead in his eyes as he gasps for breath. 

He’s still hard. 

“Fuck,” he breaths shakily. “Fuck, fuck, shit, _Jon.”_

He gives up. Martin gives up, and he pumps his hand over his dick rough and tight and fast, and he thinks about Jon, and all of the many, many things he wants to _do_ to him. 

He’s so small now. God, he’s so small, he can’t get over it, he can’t _bear_ it, how it makes his chest ache at the sight of him. He could pin him down so easily. Effortlessly, with one hand. He could hold him down with one hand, and with the other he could carefully rub a finger between his legs as he squirmed and writhed, utterly helpless to stop him, crying out as Martin fondled him until he came-- and then he could keep going, and Jon would get louder, oversensitive and shaking as Martin got him off again and again, like making a beautiful firework go off as many times as he wanted. 

Or, or-- or he could pick him up and lick at his crotch, the tip of his tongue tasting all of him in one pass, warm and wet and broad and firm and insistent. He could fit his mouth over his dick-- so incredibly small now-- and just suck, gently, and listen to Jon _wail._

Or-- after Jon’s had some nectar to eat, and he’s all happy and carefree and _eager--_ he could unzip his jeans, fish his dick out and stroke it firm and hard, and then place him on it and just… see what he does with it. Let him run wild. God, Jon would have to cling to it to rub himself off against Martin’s cock, he’d be the same _size_ as it. He’d make such pretty, cute noises if he got it into his head to suck at it, to drink up the beading precome at the head of his dick, eager and sloppy as he lapped it up and tried to lick and kiss as much as he could as he grinds against it needily, desperately. He’d be drenched if Martin came, he’d have to clean the poor thing up-- god, remember the way his wings _fluttered_ when he came, held in the palm of his hand--

Martin comes with a _shout_ this time, like it’s an agony. A sweet, wonderful agony. He sobs for breath, the water running now lukewarm over him. He opens his eyes in slits, tears running down his face. 

His dick is… it’s softening. Thank god. 

Note to self: fairy come is a brutal aphrodisiac, and is _not_ to be eaten on a whim. 

Tiredly, Martin cleans himself off. His head feels kind of fuzzy, his body spent and shaky. There’s nothing he wants more in the world than to go and collapse into bed, but first, first-- 

Martin makes himself put on some sweats, a t-shirt, and then hesitantly stands out in the middle of his living room. He thinks Jon is hiding in here. It’s the place with the most clutter to hide under, after all. And the _incident_ had happened in the kitchen, Martin was using the bathroom, and it’s a bit awkward to walk into someone else’s bedroom while they’re not there. Although, rubbing yourself off on someone else without making that decision first is much more awkward, so. Maybe he’s wrong. 

“I’m going to bed now,” he calls out, trying to project his voice without shouting and making his neighbour bang on his wall in irritation. “Just so you know, I’m not-- I’m not upset, or anything. I know you didn’t mean to do that, Jon. It was pretty obvious. I get that you’re embarrassed but… it-- it’s okay. That’s all I wanted to say.” 

He waits for a long moment for a response. There’s nothing but silence. His heart sinks a little bit lower. He goes to bed. 

He is so, so tired. It takes him a while to fall asleep anyways, knowing that Jon is in his flat but not knowing where, knowing he’s upset but not how much. Remembering all of those things he’d thought about Jon-- god, some of those fantasies had been _mean._ He wouldn’t. He won’t. He won’t take advantage of Jon like that just because he can, just because he’s so small and helpless now that there’s absolutely nothing he could do to stop him. He’ll take good care of him, until he’s himself again. He swears. 

Eventually, Martin falls asleep. 

Jon is so mortified he sort of wants to go and find a hole to go and die in, but he doesn’t. 

He’s been aroused before. Rarely. It’s a thing that happens to him about once a blue moon. Months, sometimes _years,_ will go by without him feeling the sensation. When it does, he usually takes care of it himself. That’s easiest. This, though. What happened back there, after he ate that nectar. It’s as if all of the other times he’d felt aroused was just static electricity, and _that_ was like being hit by a _lightning bolt._ His mind had gone clear and silent, simple. Everything had seemed so simple, and so easy. 

Every single conversation and interaction he’s ever had with Martin had washed away like footprints in the sand being erased by the tide. Left behind, all there was was how he felt about him, in that moment. And that was _safe._ He felt safe, with him. He knew that to his bones, a solid certainty. Martin was soft and warm and he smelled good, and he handled Jon carefully, gently, even though he was so, so big. He got Jon food, and he kept him safe from spiders and strangers and anything else that might want to hurt him. It doesn’t matter how small or weak he is now, how wobbly and hesitant his flight, how fragile his wings. Martin’s here to protect him. He’s safe. 

And somehow, that had translated to humping his hand and moaning like a porn star until he came all over him, to show his appreciation. Jon _really_ doesn’t appreciate his new fairy instincts. They are highly dubious. 

At least he has a bit of a better understanding of flying now. He’s far from graceful, but at least he can move about. Helpful that, for when he needs to hide his face immediately for a few hours. The plan had been to stay hidden where he is and just sleep here for the night, alone. 

That’s not working out. He’s bundled up in a blanket messily tossed over Martin’s couch, and he’s still shivering. He’s always run a bit cold, but either the heating in Martin’s flat is terrible or this is another fairy thing. Fantastic. Maybe he’s going to die of cold in the night like a bug caught outside during winter, in the middle of a reasonably heated apartment. Wonderful. Perhaps they can bury him in a shoebox, like an expired pet hamster. Or would that be too roomy? 

When his teeth start to chatter, he gives up. He leaves the useless blanket, and takes flight. It’s wobbly and precarious, not balanced at all, but he tries his best. It feels even more perilous in the dark, as if he’s going to fly straight into a door frame and knock himself out. Painfully slowly, he makes his way to the bedroom, the door left half open, as if in shy invitation. He hopes he’s not seeing things that aren’t there. 

He goes, and he flutters his way towards the silhouette of a form laying on the bed. He’d hoped, without much actual hope, that maybe he was still awake and Jon could ask him for help without bothering him. Good heavens, he’s already made such a spectacle of himself today, he could go the rest of his life without asking Martin Blackwood for another favor and he’d still feel like he owed him something. At the same time, he’s a bit relieved to see him asleep. Jon still doesn’t feel quite up to looking him in the eye after all that. 

One of his wings beats off tempo, missing a beat, and he goes abruptly angled, crashing, and he falls with a squeak onto Martin’s chest. He freezes for a moment, waiting for him to wake. But he doesn’t. Jon’s weight is too light to so much as stir him, apparently. He shoots his traitorous wings a glare, and then moves to get back up to his feet to leave, to try and figure this out on his own, the cold be damned. 

But Martin is so warm. 

It was like the tube ride to his flat. He’d lied there, nestled in his pocket, pressed up against his side as Martin’s body warmth slowly bled into him, all encompassing, and he’d been helpless to the slow tugging of sleep pulling at him. It had been so warm, so peaceful. The soundest sleep he’s had in a long time. 

One moment. He’s going to leave in one moment. 

Martin’s chest rises and falls in the slow breathing of one deep asleep. It feels like what he imagines sleeping on a boat must feel like. Like being rocked to sleep by the waves, the entire world. He closes his eyes, and just drinks in the warmth seeping into him, finally chasing the insistent, biting chill away. He’s so warm. 

One moment. 

He smells so nice. Clean and warm, freshly showered before bed. Smells like Martin. Smells like safety. 

Just one moment… 

Martin wakes up to Jon sound asleep on his chest. It’s a very, very good start to the day, honestly. Jon didn’t spend the whole night holed up somewhere, alone. He came back to Martin eventually. He fell asleep here. He can’t be too upset with Martin if he fell asleep on him, right? Martin is going to take good care of Jon and maybe… maybe Jon knows that too. 

Jon nuzzles into Martin’s shirt, his moth wings shifting, and Martin belatedly covers up his eyes, flushing. 

He really is going to have to figure out a clothing situation for him soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Some beautiful fanart of fairy Jon: https://eldritchhusbandsfluff.tumblr.com/post/633731825763860480/mothfairyjon-by-primtheamazing


End file.
